


Another Deal

by Valmouth



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Decisions, Gen, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Negotiations, POV Qui-Gon Jinn, Political Alliances, Qui-Gon Lives, War, Young Anakin Skywalker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-26 10:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9887330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valmouth/pseuds/Valmouth
Summary: Qui-Gon listens to Anakin say that he dreamed he was a knight and returned to free the slaves, and as he watches the sun rise he wants fervently to see a time in which such things are possible. And there is one last deal he can make on Tatooine.





	1. Chapter 1

There is another deal he makes.

After all, the night is young and he has arranged to meet his young benefactor in the hangar bay before the race begins in the morning. He trusts Obi-Wan to watch over the Queen and her escorts, and trusts that Jar Jar will sleep soundly enough to stay out of trouble for a while.

There is much work to be done.

He liberates the speeder from its locks, deftly rewiring the ignition until the machine splutters into life. The distance isn’t too far, and all he can do is trust the Force.

Which is more than he can say about the citadel he infiltrates.

Force suggestions can only take him so far before he must reveal himself, and doing so doesn’t endear him to his hosts, who waste no time summoning the guards while the rest of the Court shrinks back and screeches in spice-addled confusion.

He endures the noise and the assault upon his senses, but when an unwise guard attempts to lay a hand on him, he lops it off with ruthless ease before powering down his lightsabre and bringing all his authority to bear.

“Peace, Jabba,” he shouts over the din, “I come to talk only.”

Jabba rumbles something in return and his assistant comes forward, pale and black-clad, red eyes shining with malevolence and fear.

“You have come armed like an assassin into the court of the Great Jabba, you have threatened his friends and attacked his guard, why should he not kill you where you stand, Jedi?” Bib Fortuna demands.

Qui-Gon slowly returns his lightsabre to his belt and then raises his open hands palm up. “I only fight to protect myself. Your guard,” he casts a glance at the howling gamorrean, “Will live.”

Jabba rumbles again.

Fortuna orders the guards back. “They will stay with their weapons drawn,” the Tw’ilek hisses, “While you explain yourself.”

Qui-Gon dips his head to acknowledge the arrangement, and then states his case baldly – “I have come to ask for help.”

The court falls into silence. Bib Fortuna is speechless.

And then Jabba laughs.

Slow, deep roars of sound.

And his court recovers. Now that their disoriented senses have grasped something they understand, they follow their lord’s rule faithfully. They uncurl from their corners and huddles to creep closer. And they laugh too.

Qui-Gon does not look around. If he has noticed his audience, he pays them no mind.

They are not to know, he realises, that he has categorised the exits and his proximity to them. He has marked groups, and outliers, the females and two younglings, and stools and cushions that could either help or hinder his fight should he need to move quickly.

When Bib Fortuna’s cadaverous smile invites him to continue, he does.

He needs to borrow money. He cannot offer any surety except his word, and he will repay in datari.

His words are greeted with more laughter.

“Republic Credits are useless on Tatooine,” Bib Fortuna sneers, “We have no need for them and you can offer nothing else. There is no reason for the great Jabba to even keep you alive, Jedi.”

Qui-Gon doesn’t react.

He turns deliberately away from Fortuna to address Jabba directly. “There are two points I would like you to consider before you kill me. Republic credits, for one, will allow you to invest in some… respectable business.”

His words are greeted with derisive laughter. And he allows his mouth to curve up in acknowledgement. But he also allows the smallest touch of calm patience to enter his tone, as though bored by the prospect of guiding a slower mind to what should be an obvious revelation.

“I’m sure you are aware,” he says, “Such a thing will need much investment. Perhaps construction and renovation; supply runs from all over the galaxy. A busy and complex undertaking, I would imagine, with the face of legitimacy.”

He knows what he is doing, and he knows that what he is unleashing on the Galaxy will not seem worthwhile in the cold light of logical.

But he hardens his heart and watches while Jabba’s eyes gleam with greed.

“Then there is your payment,” he continues, “Half I give you now, the rest will be delivered to you on my return to Coruscant. You have thus opened the lines of communication between your empire,” he inclines his head regally, “And the Jedi Order, the Republic Senate, and powerful friends in the Chommell Sector. More to the point, you have demonstrated your power, your political acumen and your mercy in one single act. It is not a boon to take lightly.”

He has envisioned all the ways this can end. And in all the possibilities, he is certain that Jabba will either take the deal, or kill him. In which case his only options are to escape or to die.

He is resigned to both.

He has already stepped far beyond his remit in even approaching a Hutt who deals in the kind of misery and vice that Jabba does. Even leaving that aside, he has wilfully exposed his position on Tatooine, and there is no reason that Jabba shouldn’t betray him to the Trade Federation for far more lucrative rewards.

But he counts on one thing – Jabba’s desire to add to his own consequence.

And in the end it works.

Jabba takes the deal, and Bib Fortuna has a hover carrier attached to his speeder to take his wupiupi back to the space port.

The payment is enough, and Qui-Gon watches the sun rise over the dunes as he contemplates his next decision.

Buying the parts outright will negate the need for Anakin to race. Shmi will be relieved, but he knows something about the hearts of boys and this will be a hard blow to Anakin’s self-worth. It will insult the child, and Qui-Gon is as reluctant to do that as he is to see him hurt.

He is also reluctant to walk away and leave him in such bondage.

A slave’s life is no life for any living being but if his suspicions are right, then Anakin must be freed. He must return to Coruscant and he must be trained.

For the good of the Galaxy.

For the good of all future children.

He hears Anakin say that he dreamed he was a knight and returned to free the slaves, and as he watches the sun rise he wants fervently to see a time in which such things are possible. He wants to see a time of freedom and peace, for beings to do good because it is right, not because they gain.

He glances distastefully at the crate of money he has hidden in the dunes, wondering how much blood is soaked into the history of each unit.

And if he gives this money for parts, he will not have enough to buy Anakin or Shmi. If he buys the slaves, he will not have enough for the Queen to reach Coruscant, and her world will crumble under his watch.

He returns to the hangar bay in time to greet Anakin, starkly excited and unafraid beside his rusty bucket of bolts that looks even smaller and rustier by being in the same space as the expertly modified racing pods of the other contestants.

He wonders if he is quite sane to be contemplating what he is, but he shoulders the consequences and makes his decision.

Watto takes his bet for one slave, but not both.

Qui-Gon holds his tongue. Whatever the outcome of the race, the Queen will go to Coruscant.

He is a traitor, he knows, to the love and fear that Shmi so clearly shows him when Anakin isn’t there to see it. It isn’t fair on the boy or his mother, and it is dangerous. He is well aware of how dangerous.

But he trusts in the Force, and he believes in Anakin.

He knows this is the right decision because Anakin wins. Not because of any training, or inspiration, or even the knowledge that some stranger believes in his ability. Anakin wins simply because he wants to, and because he can.

The boy has natural talent unlike anything Qui-Gon has ever seen, and more courage than he can imagine.

It confirms everything he believes, and the time is right when Watto tries to wriggle out of the deal.

“And while I’m here,” Qui-Gon says, half turned as though to leave, “I’ll take the woman as well.”

Watto’s wheeze of outrage has no impact on him. The Force has made him right and triumph makes him self-righteous.

“I will deliver full payment for both to your workshop.”

Shmi sits down hard and stares at him as though he’s grown a second head. “How?” she finally asks weakly.

The blood money he has sold a piece of his integrity for has finally seen some good, he thinks, and smiles down at her. “The problem with the Galaxy,” he says whimsically, “Is that people don’t help each other.”

She blinks while Anakin laughs and shouts in her ear and then Qui-Gon’s smile fades as his comm chirps.

“Yes?” he says, answering.

Obi-Wan’s voice is panicked and the comm is cutting in and out. There is the sound of blaster fire in the distance and he can hear the guards shouting to the Queen to stay down.

“Red and black,” he hears Obi-Wan say and then the channel cuts out.

“We must leave,” he says.

“But I… We haven’t packed,” she says, “Our things.”

“Then stay here and finish your business. Close your door. Open it to no one. I will return.”

He leaves at a run because he knows Obi-Wan’s voice as he knows nothing else, and even when the words make no sense, his Padawan has rarely sounded this panicked.

The sand slows him down, as does the heat, but even as he leaves the outskirts of the town he can hear an explosion.

And then he sees them – red and blue flashing in the bright sunlight against the polished metal of the grounded ship.

Obi-Wan is retreating, painful leap back by painful leap back, rebuffed every time he tries to gain ground.  

He is still far away when the red double-ended sabre thrusts and he sees Obi-Wan fall. The stranger straightens. It looks down for a moment, and then it simply walks away. It gets onto a gravity bike and leaves.

He calls on the Force and pushes himself.

His training and experience should have destroyed his instinct to indulge in worthless histrionics in a time of crisis. His every thought should be on the Queen in his charge, and her guards and escorts who he can’t see and were at the mercy of something that has just taken down a Jedi.

But this day has been a difficult one, and Obi-Wan has breached defences around his heart that even Xanatos could not reach.

He is lost entirely in the need to reach that fallen body and check for signs of life.

Obi-Wan is not dead, but he is losing blood rapidly and he is going into medical shock.

Still he mouths words that have no sound while his eyes dart frantically to the sand dunes rather than the ship.

“Be still,” Qui-Gon says, “Hold on. We will get you help. We have our parts.”

Obi-Wan’s hand grabs with powerful frustration at his robes. “Go,” he hisses out urgently, “Assass.... in. Hide.”

It is not his job to hide.

His job is to stand between the monsters and the people he protects.

And then Obi-Wan’s eyes roll back as he slides into unconsciousness.

Qui-Gon gathers him up in his arms, huffing beneath his burning lungs and the not inconsiderable weight that Obi-Wan has grown into. The child he once carried into the sick bay with a fever and a bruised throat is long gone.

Qui-Gon walks into the ship to find carnage.

Not a single soul is left alive. The Queen’s head has been severed from her shoulders, and the eyes still stare in terror, the painted mouth opened in a silent scream as the blackened stump of her neck points obscenely at him.

He picks his way around bodies and scorched metal and overturned luggage until he reaches the tiny medical station just beside the Queen’s chamber.

The Naboo have a love for beautiful things and even this sterilised compartment is made graceful with polished lines and delicate curves. He doesn’t even notice as he lays Obi-Wan down on the cot and works to get his belt and tabard off.

The wound is far better than it first appeared. It’s a clean thrust through the right flank, entry and exit cauterised, but from what he can tell it hasn’t hit any major internal organs directly.

This is not to say that Obi-Wan’s life is not still in danger. The burning heat generated by a lightsabre might cause injuries that kill slowly, but it does kill. Besides, there are other mottled bruises on Obi-Wan’s chest and arms that tell him the fight before the final blow was a hard one.

He can feel a break in the ribs beneath his fingers, a dislocation in the left shoulder.

The dislocation is easy to put right when Obi-Wan is as limp as an Ibellian rag doll, but even unconscious his Padawan jerks at the pain.

There is nothing he can do for the broken ribs besides keep the body still, but the more serious lightsabre injury is far trickier. The wound is cauterised closed, blackened flesh sunken and molten. Bacta will heal but it won’t reach the more problematic internal sites without a medical irrigation system.

There are none on this ship.

There is, however, an old field treatment for such wounds.

Qui-Gon begins his search in the medical compartment but there are no needles long enough. He leaves to check the rest of the ship.

Daggers and knives are too thick, too wide and too clumsy. The ship is too small for a kitchen, sacrificing facilities for storage. The engineering stores have no spikes or gauge rods. The probes are too short and too blunt.

And then he turns abruptly on his heel and heads for the Queen’s room.

Padme’s costumes are layered and stiff, and somewhere in there he hopes to find a length of tempered metal, thin and deadly.  

It’s only when he’s rifling through a box of staggeringly intricate garments that he throws a heavy wooden cosmetic palette into a panel that rings hollow. It also emits a stifled gasp.

He stops immediately.

It isn’t a surprise that Padme is concealed in a secret holding cell.

“Your Majesty,” he says, and doesn’t care to continue playing her strange game of secret identity any more, “I am glad to see you safe. Are you hurt?”

“No,” she replies, “Captain Panaka told me to hide. He stationed the guard outside. But I heard them screaming.”

Qui-Gon shakes his head. “I’m afraid they were killed, Your Highness. Captain Panaka did his duty with great courage.”

Her face begins to crumple and he has no time for her grief. He reaches to grasp her shoulders, offering a physical sensation to countermand the emotional one.

“I need you to listen to me,” he says urgently, “My apprentice was badly hurt in the fight. I need your help.”

Her eyes are huge and tear-stained, her face white. Her hands will not stop shaking but she listens to him. She gives him a long, slender stiletto, apparently used to hold ornaments in the fanciful headpieces she wears as Queen.

Though they leave the room together, she falls to her knees not one pace outside and wails in agony over the friends that have died to protect her.

He hears her but the sound is too far away. His heart is skipping in his chest but he keeps his movements methodical and careful. He drops to one knee beside her and wrenches her hands away from her face.

“Padme, I need your help,” he insists cruelly, “The dead are gone but the living can be saved.”

He knows he has just destroyed the last of the goodwill she feels for him, and he doesn’t care.

She sways on her feet but she does stand, and her head is held high.

She is thirteen years old and small, slender, but she helps him pull off Obi-Wan’s tunic and cut down the side of his leggings while Qui-Gon wipes down the stiletto thoroughly with disinfectant and a thick layer of bacta.

When she has bared Obi-Wan’s skin, Qui-Gon repeats the process on the wound and a wide circle of surrounding flesh. A thin series of sores and thin white cracks tell him the skin around the entry point has burned as well.

He puts her at the head of the cot.

“Hold his upper arms,” he instructs, “And lean down hard when he moves. What I’m about to do will not be pleasant. If you must, look away, but do not let him go.”

Then he forces the stiletto through the cauterised wound.

Obi-Wan screams, not aware but certainly conscious.

Padme also screams, but to her credit, she pushes down hard on Obi-Wan’s upper arms, pins him to bunk and doesn’t throw up all over him.

Qui-Gon leans on Obi-Wan’s thighs and pours bacta liberally into the re-opened wound. He uses a wad of bacta-soaked bandages to clamp down hard on the injury.

Obi-Wan almost breaks free, rolling in a way that does not bode well for either his recovering shoulder, his broken ribs or Padme’s grip.

“Hold him!” Qui-Gon shouts, and Padme does her best.

It’s madness for only a moment and then Obi-Wan goes limp again.

Qui-Gon checks his pulse, his heartrate, his blood pressure and his temperature. None of them are satisfactory but at least Obi-Wan’s still alive to have all of them.

Within half an hour, his pulse is stronger.

Qui-Gon dares not repeat the process. He’s well aware that adding further injury to the shock has often resulted in more harm than good but he can be certain now that the bacta will try to heal the flesh it can reach.

“We have to get out of here,” he says, “The parts. Did they arrive?”

Padme, her hands finally steady but her grief almost impossible to bear, shakes her head.

Qui-Gon leans his back against the wall and takes a slow, cleansing breath. “Very well. Your Highness,” he says, “We need those parts. I need you to stay here and watch over Obi-Wan while I go back to town.”

She starts to shake again.

“I would not ask this of you but I believe that the creature who did this will not come back just yet. He thinks he has killed the Queen. As far as he knows, I’m the only target he has missed.”

“But you’re here.”

“I have also been in town,” he says gently, “With Anakin and his mother. They are helpless, and I fear what someone who could do this to your guards will do to a defenceless boy and a woman.”

The words trigger some reserve of strength in her, and she nods immediately. “Go,” she says, and with every word her voice gets stronger, “I’ll watch your friend. Get Anakin and his mother to safety, and get those parts.”

He nods once and goes, not looking back.

Truthfully, he has no guarantee that the assassin won’t come back. One sun is beginning to set, and the other will go down in two hours. The day is turning old and if he has not been found in the town, the creature will want to wait in the only place he is likely to return.

But he goes back to the town as quickly as he can, heart in his throat as he strides to the small shack Shmi has turned into a home.

She waits at the door, as though she has sensed his approach, and her eyes are already worried as she looks up at him.

“Jar Jar Binks is with us. He said the ship was attacked. What has happened?” she asks.

“Are you ready?” he insists.

She nods.

Jar Jar is standing beside the R2 unit and the protocol droid, teeth chattering and eyes almost falling out their sockets. But he is unhurt.

Qui-Gon nods at him and looks at the droids.

“Do you need to take those?” he asks.

“Master Anakin is my creator. I can be useful,” the tall pile of exposed wires tells him.

He doesn’t have the time to argue with it. He turns back to Anakin and Shmi, noting the bulging pack over Anakin’s shoulder and the two small sacks in Shmi’s hands.

“You will have to carry those yourselves,” he says rapidly, “I need to see about the parts. They haven’t been delivered yet.”

“Watto likes to drink at Feefo’s Cantino when he loses at the pod races,” Anakin volunteers, “And when he wins a lot of money.”

Qui-Gon nods and says, “Stay close to me. If you see or sense anything that feels out of place or troubles you, tell me. If I tell you to run, run. Do as I say and you should be safe.”

“Is it Gardula?” Anakins, his small world revolving around this early terror.

“No,” he says, “Someone far more dangerous.”

Someone, moreover, who moves and fights like a Jedi but with an aggression that speaks to darkness and a desire to kill. No Jedi fights to kill. They deal a death blow only when there is no other way.

They arrive at Watto’s workshop, and the cargo is loaded but Watto is nowhere to be seen.

“We’ll take it ourselves,” Qui-Gon says, “We can’t wait any longer.”

The second sun is beginning to sink to the horizon.

Shmi and Anakin glance at each other and then look at the hover carriers with twin expressions of contemplation.

“If we use the magnetic repulsors from that piece there,” Shmi suggests.

“Yes! Then we can push the one on the back and the repulsors will force the one in front to move away. The momentum should keep them going with a little effort,” Anakin exults.

They both look to Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow. “I defer to the experts,” he says, “But won’t the repulsors push the second carrier backwards?”

“A short chain should keep the momentum rolling forward,” Shmi explains, “I don’t know. We won’t know until we try.”

“I suggest we do this quickly, then,” Qui-Gon says.

He keeps watch while they work, but they work fast and they work efficiently, and when they’re done, their work holds well enough to get them out of town. Jar Jar can, at least, be counted on to push when he is told, and the astromech droid proves his usefulness yet again when Shmi puts him in a temporary harness to pull.

The desert is trickier, because the way is not smooth going, but when they reach the ship, Qui-Gon motions them to a stop and creeps forward until he can sense who and what is on it.

“Quiet,” he hisses, when Jar Jar begins to moan.

But so far the ship is safe.

In his absence, Padme has dragged the bodies of her friends to the room she was allotted as Queen. She has covered them with the cheerful, beautiful cloth that was put out to honour her power. She has laid a light blanket over Obi-Wan’s legs, and tied a firm roll of bandages around his torso to hold a fresh bacta soaked bandage onto his wound.

Her hair is a mess, her face is still white, and her hands are bloodstained.

“Child?” Shmi whispers, “Oh.”

She takes in the broken fixtures and scoured, scorched metal and turns frightened eyes on Qui-Gon. “What have you brought us into?” she asks.

He does not answer her. “Anakin,” he says, “Come with me.”

Between them they begin to repair the ship.

Shmi joins them a few minutes later, once the moon has risen, and she takes the calibrator gently out of Anakin’s hands, “Work on the power connectors. I will finish this.”

“Okay,” he says.

Qui-Gon fastens the last of the rivets in place ready for the welding pin. “How is the Queen?” he asks in an undertone.

“Queen?” Shmi levels a sad look at him. “She is a child, trapped on a planet not her own, in a war she didn’t ask for, surrounded by the mutilated bodies of her friends. She is no Queen.”

“She is,” he returns, with the same tired resignation, “Even in her darkest moment, her most personal grief, she is Queen. She must find a way to bear this burden.”

Shmi says nothing more.

The three of them work and it is complete in a matter of an hour.

It is still almost too late.

They are almost ready to take off when the creature arrives. Jar Jar spots him first and runs screaming into the engine room, and Qui-Gon races to the defenceless hangar bay, shouting at them to start the engines.

The creature leaps for the closing ramp as they begin to lift off the sand, a snarl curling his face.

Anakin and Padme fly them out of there while Qui-Gon activates his lightsabre and swings.

It’s a wild swing, and should never have worked, but the howl of shock as the creature’s severed arm rolls into the loading bay while he falls back to the earth bounces off the metal walls in echoes that last even after the port closes.

Qui-Gon sits down on a crate and takes a moment to clear his mind and his racing heart. The adrenaline is buzzing victory and relief and revenge through his bloodstream but he quiets them with the careful reminder that this is no victory.

This is merely a stay of execution.

Someone is after the Queen of Naboo, her entourage is dead, his apprentice is badly injured and likely to die if he doesn’t receive proper medical treatment and Qui-Gon is well aware that he has made a controversial bargain with a Hutt for the lives of two slaves. Very nice slaves, but worth little in the long term effects of extending Jabba’s influence into the Republic.

But what he has done, he has done, he thinks tiredly, and he feels old as he gains his feet again.

He picks up the severed arm and wraps it in his robe, placing the intricate lightsabre beside it.

The crystals feel wrong even when latent, humming with a sort of siren call of power and discovery.

He is beginning to have his suspicions.

He locks it into the cabinet that housed the weapons with which the guards tried to defend themselves and failed.

“Sleep,” he tells Anakin, Shmi, and Padme, “Jar Jar, sit with Obi-Wan. If there is any change, let me know.”

“Yessir,” Jar Jar says, “Meesa keep meesa eye wide peepy.”

“I can stay awake with you, sir,” Anakin says stoutly, though his eyes are bloodshot and heavy, “You can’t fly a ship like this alone.”

He smiles, and marvels again. “Alright,” he says, and then nods to the co-pilot’s chair, “You’d better take a seat, then.”

Anakin’s face lights up like a beacon as he scrambles into it.

There isn’t much he has to do once their course is plotted and the hyperdrive is active, but there are controls to keep an eye on. Qui-Gon watches covertly over his shoulder without appearing to hover. When the boy falls asleep, Qui-Gon carries him silently to his mother, who takes him with gentle care and settles him into a bunk.

At some point, they all sleep. Qui-Gon spends half his allotted time of rest meditating. When he rises out into reality, he feels more refreshed than he has since the day they left for the Trade Federation blockade.

He goes to check on Obi-Wan, who is awake and currently being entertained by a nine year old.

“I see you’ve met Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon says.

“Yes,” Anakin says, “He was awake so I came to see if he needed anything.”

Qui-Gon looks at Obi-Wan, who gazes back at him pointedly.

“Anakin was telling me,” Obi-Wan says hoarsely, “About the pod race. How you freed him and his mother.”

And from the look on Obi-Wan’s face, Qui-Gon is well aware that he will be asked questions in Obi-Wan’s usual maddeningly diffident but perceptive way.

These, he resolves to answer on the same day he answers the questions Shmi no doubt wants to ask about what sort of trouble he’s just brought her and her son into, and the questions Padme will want to ask about his wayward behaviour on Tatooine.

At some point, she will realise that if he had brokered his deal earlier, they would never have had to stay for the pod race. They would have had their repairs and been gone before the assassin ever boarded the ship and slaughtered her escort.

He is also resolved that these will not be answered on the day he answers the questions the Council and the Senate will put to him.

That day, he feels, he will have answers no one will want to hear or thank him for.

“Ani, I think it’s time you relieved your mother at her post,” he suggests.

And Anakin nods. “Okay,” he says, “Nice to meet you, Obi-Wan.”

“Likewise,” Obi-Wan says.

And they both watch the boy disappear through the door.

“He won,” Obi-Wan says neutrally.

“His instincts are beyond anything I’ve ever seen. And he has kindness to spare for every pathetic lifeform in the galaxy twice over.”

“A kindred…” Obi-Wan starts to say, and then coughs.

He doubles over in stifled pain but he isn’t quick enough to hide the blood on his lips.

Qui-Gon helps him gently back down and peels back the bandages. There is no fresh blood on those. The bruises on Obi-Wan’s chest are blooming a dark purple, and there is nothing he can do about the internal injuries.

He wishes fervently that this was just another incident of a strangled throat and a fever, of Obi-Wan small and a lot more naïve and a lot less independent. He wishes this mission was easier to resolve.

“You look tired, Master,” Obi-Wan whispers.

“And you look ill, Padawan. We will both take what rest we can and look forward to Coruscant,” Qui-Gon says.

He lays a hand on Obi-Wan’s abdomen, testing the overwarm skin and the slick of sweat against his palm. Beneath the muscle, there is a nasty tension.

Obi-Wan’s eyes are fearless and knowing.

“You’ll live,” Qui-Gon says calmly, and places his hand over those eyes instead, “Sleep.”

Whether Obi-Wan responds to the suggestion or not, when he lifts his palm, the sandy lashes sweep soft against pale skin, delicate beyond measure.

Qui-Gon returns to the loading bay and stares at the locked weapons cabinet. He thinks of the hum of power biding its time, waiting to be unleashed. Violence and vengeance lurking in the shadows, unseen until it is ready to strike.

This was how Tahl died, he thinks.

He forces himself to dwell on it. To remember the weight of her in his arms as her organs failed. He remembers the horror of the sensory deprivation device she stayed locked in for days at a time, paralysed and fully conscious, with nothing to do but feel the life slipping through her fingers and the betrayal of those she loved.

And yet her smile when she heard his voice, her thoughts for Bant and Obi-Wan and Yoda. Her voice calling him back – from the Force or the depths of his own heart – as he stood over her murderer, ready to kill in her name.

And Obi-Wan had stood by him, trust never broken even when he seemed on the brink of madness.

He cannot lose another like this, he thinks, and his fingers itch to reach for the lock.

“Mister Qui-Gon, sir?”

He stills his hands. “Yes, Ani?” he asks, and turns.

“I… I wanted to talk, but I can wait.”

“What is it?” he asks, and sits down on the nearest trunk. He pats the tiny space beside him invitingly.

“Padme’s crying,” Anakin says, and plops down, “My mother’s with her but I don’t know what to say.”

“Sometimes there is nothing you can say,” Qui-Gon tells him, “She must grieve. What you can do is accept that.”

“One of my friends died once,” Anakin confides, “He was a slave too, like Mom, but he was very old. Older than you.”

Qui-Gon knows better than to show his amusement. “I see,” he says.

Anakin doesn’t even notice. And Qui-Gon can’t truly blame him. Death is a confusing matter to a child. Most shrug it off, and some can’t process it, but it marks them all in some way.

Anakin remembers a friend who was there one day, healthy and strong and warm with affection, and then grey and broken the next, who had no time for him and no words of warmth left before he passed away from sickness.

“Death will come to us all, Anakin,” he says, “But in the Force, life and death are only sides of the same coin. There is no horror in dying.”

Anakin considers this. “But no one wants to die,” he says.

“No,” Qui-Gon agrees, “And that is the paradox. To be alive is a gift, to be alive and aware is a greater gift. That doesn’t mean your life can be perfect all the time.”

“I suppose,” Anakin says heavily.

Qui-Gon thinks of a boy not yet thirteen, whose only dream was to be a Jedi knight. Who was bullied and hurt and rejected and still clung stubbornly to the hope that it would be worth it.

“Believe in good, Anakin,” he says, “But guard your heart. You will face things that will test your compassion.”

Anakin looks down at his hands. “Like the bodies in Padme’s room. I mean, the Queen.”

“Yes. Like that. Death is nothing to fear, Ani, but a Jedi values life. To see it destroyed is…” He shakes his head, and then looks down. “Search your heart. What do you feel?”

Anakin purses his lips and squeezes his eyes shut.

Qui-Gon doubts the boy is going to give himself much more than a headache so he is surprised when Anakin opens his eyes with a start.

“Mister Qui-Gon,” he says, “What’s in that box?”

He points at the cabinet behind them.

Qui-Gon goes cold. “Weapons,” he says shortly, “And I think it’s time we found you some food.”

When Anakin is usefully employed elsewhere, he removes the package from the locked cabinet and lays it in the room with the bodies. The ship is sufficiently advanced to allow him to lower the temperature in this one compartment alone.

It is still not enough for optimal preservation but it slows the decaying process enough. He enlists Jar Jar’s help in transferring Padme’s luggage to another room.

They reach Coruscant without any other incident, and in the circumstances, the Jedi Order organises for medical transport to meet them at the landing platform. They cannot afford to let Padme travel without security so the Senate guards send an escort with Senator Palpatine and Chancellor Valorum.

Before they arrive, Padme asks Shmi attend her.

“I am Queen,” she says, “I must look like it.”

Shmi is no handmaiden but she does her best. Between the two of them, Padme is draped in black and red, her hair tucked beneath another elaborate head dress and her face carefully painted.

She holds her head high as she takes her place in the loading bay, stern and impassive, her eyes cold.

Anakin’s eyes are huge as she glides past but then she pauses and glances down at him, and her mouth curves up in a smile just for him.

He smiles back up at her, bright with his unaffected admiration.

When Shmi hovers uncertainly in the doorway, Qui-Gon turns to watch her.

The poor woman looks extremely uncomfortable, her face flushed and her eyes not quite meeting anyone’s gaze.

She is a vision in dark blue and silver.

Anakin squawks like some sort of small furry creature and throws himself at her waist.

“Anakin, be careful,” she winces, and pats his shoulder hurriedly before pushing him away and brushing down her skirt, “The orange didn’t fit, my lady, so I… I hope you don’t mind. I saw one of your other handmaidens had…” Her voice trails off unhappily.

“The colour isn’t important,” Padme says, her voice regal and pitched deep to signal her authority. But she adds, “That one suits you better. I’m glad you chose it.”

She turns her head slowly to face forward and Shmi is immediately beside her, carefully rearranging the folds of her gown before turning to Anakin.

“Anakin,” she says, “We must help the Queen until she is with her own people. We do not know the customs on this world so be silent, don’t touch anything and try to stay out of the way. Keep beside me.”

Qui-Gon folds his arms within his sleeves, silently charmed and saddened by the twin looks of determination and mild fear in the face of mother and child.

Padme says nothing, her gaze fixed on a point straight ahead of her.

When they have landed, he stands beside her.  

There is nothing to say. They must both face what is to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to everyone who has given this AU a chance. I have gone back and redone the 'bloodied footsteps' bit in Chapter 1. I had originally written it in to reference the damage caused by an assassin droid that Maul brings with him to take down the guards, but since assassin droids would likely use blaster fire which also cauterises wounds, there isn't likely to be any blood anywhere. Maybe bits of burnt organic matter (brain, flesh etc) but nothing liquid, So still icky, just not bloody. ^_^

He disembarks first, for her protection and for the sake of protocol. He is not her subject nor her vassal. He cannot follow in her train. So he precedes her and announces her, stepping aside in polite respect as she walks forward to meet her welcoming committee.

Senator Palpatine bows low and then says a few quiet words beneath his breath that brings grief to her face, even covered as it is in the impassive, regal mask she wears. Then he introduces Chancellor Valorum.

Shmi casts one frightened look back at him as Padme begins to glide away.

Qui-Gon offers a small smile and a nod of encouragement.

She is, he realises, a beautiful woman.

He wonders what she will do when he fulfils his promise to make Anakin a Jedi. He doubts she will thank him for ripping apart the close bond she has with her child. Anakin at least might adjust, as children can with careful guidance, but she will not survive it, he realises, and feels his spirits drop.

But there is no time to think of her.

The medical team is already loading Obi-Wan into the transport and he hurries back to take his place beside his barely conscious Padawan.

Obi-Wan turns his head and for a moment Qui-Gon thinks he is seeking him out in the press of beings, but those eyes flutter closed again and he cannot be sure.

The fever has risen, and so has the pain. The skin of Obi-Wan’s torso is grey-tinged where it isn’t a riotous patchwork of purple and black and green.

Qui-Gon has noted the slight sounds of bubbling in every laboured breath. He has tracked each symptom and taken whatever readings he can think of. The team has already downloaded the data and is analysing it as they work to stabilise him.

He stays quietly to the side, knowing that there is nothing he can do here.

When they reach the Temple compound, he holds back to give them clear room, prioritising their urgency over his own.

He carries the wrapped package with him, a strap fashioned to fasten it to his belt so that the weight drags at his balance but keeps his hands free for the basic formalities. And it is now time for him to face the consequences of his actions.

The Council await him, a formidable ring of watchful eyes and intimidating minds. He matches any of them on a good day but it has been too many days without sleep and rest to be a good day, and there are too many of them.

Besides, he believes in the Council, little though he likes his clashes with them.

They are rule-bound, yes, and fixated on facetious hair-splitting and antique rhetoric, but there is a reason that they exist, and he finds it helps his clarity now to present his thoughts to others who can judge them with more objectivity than he can.

Even when he wishes that they wouldn’t.

He bows, and they tell him they are pleased at his return and his safety. They tell him they are concerned at the news they have heard of the continuing blockade, of the deaths of so many, of the injuries that Obi-Wan has sustained. They tell him to give them the facts.

He gives them all the facts he has, including his deal on Tatooine with Jabba the Hutt.

They are not pleased.

“Serious questions must be asked of your thoughts on such a controversial decision,” Adi Gallia says.

She is his friend but she has learned under Mace’s hard austerity. He can trust her to be fair, but not to understand the softer nuances of prioritising people over objectives.

“My thoughts were concerned with sourcing enough to buy the parts we needed for our ship. It was imperative that we extricate the Queen from the reaches of the Trade Federation and bring her back to Coruscant.”

“Was there no other way? No equipment to barter, no trades for the Queen’s jewellery?”

“There was nothing except her clothes, and there is little use for such things in the hot desert of an Outer Rim planet,” Qui-Gon points out tiredly. He takes a breath. “I also had another consideration.”

He tells them of Anakin, and his discovery of the Chosen One. He tells them of the pod race and his bet with Watto, of how he couldn’t win Anakin’s mother in a bet and chose to pay for the release of both with the money he took from Jabba.

Money, moreover, that he is aware they have not yet discussed how he will repay.

The Jedi Council provides a stipend for their Knights but though Qui-Gon has never considered that he wants for his necessities, he has never had such a thing as luxuries. He has little money for it. And what he has is still not enough.

The Council goes into an uproar.

They like this recklessness even less than they do his negotiations with Jabba. In many ways, he knows they will understand negotiating with a criminal. There are cases when a Jedi can do nothing else because there are no other resources available on the Outer Rim.

But to endanger a child in such a blatant way, to expose him and his enslaved mother to retribution, to exacerbate slavery by buying living beings while he is a citizen of the Republic Senate which has outlawed the practice is a tangle none of them know quite what to do with.

The meeting drags until he brings them to the point that evens his playing field.

They do not believe him about the Chosen One, but they are forced to believe him about a Sith Lord when he offers them the package.

The skin is discoloured and flaking, the smell is unpleasant and the flesh is beginning to rot, but the unmistakable black and red markings are still vibrant beneath the golden sunlight streaming into the room. The claws are more effective now that the fingertips are collapsing. The muscle still holds enough shape to hint at the power which once resided in such a forearm.

Still, they remain unimpressed until he offers them the lightsabre as well.

They all recognise the hum of power, of a dark invitation to touch and take and possess.

They cannot deny him this, though they make enough excuses. After all, a fallen Jedi can wield a red lightsabre with a corrupted crystal. 

“The Sith are extinct,” Ki-Adi-Mundi says, “They have been for nearly a millennium.”

“The Sith would not have returned without us sensing it,” Mace agrees.

Qui-Gon disagrees. “Our numbers are falling,” he says, “Our Knights have little reason to travel to planets not secure within the Republic. Can we be sure we hear all that we need to?”

“Oh? Listen to gossip, we should?” Yoda asks.

“No,” Qui-Gon returns, “I suggest we trace the creature who attacked the Queen on Tatooine. I suggest we review the footage from the ship to determine his fighting style and to see if his description matches any missing personnel in the Temple archives. We should also circulate that footage through the Republic judicial network for further information on his affiliations…”

Mace holds up a hand. “This is a lot of work for a hired assassin.”

“This assassin has killed fifteen attendants to the Queen of the Naboo, and has almost killed a Jedi. He used a lightsabre and an assassin droid to do it. Now I believe he is a Sith but even if he is not, he is a murderer and a dangerous criminal. If we can find him alive, we may learn more of his employer.”

They are loath to admit this point but he has had too much time to think of this on his return to Coruscant. He has considered his words sitting beside a grieving Queen, or a dying friend. He has thought of his words while watching a mother tend her son, fearful of the future but trying to be brave.

It is only later in the evening that he is given two pieces of news.

One, Obi-Wan is stable and they are confident his injuries were attended to in time. They expect a full recovery but advise it will take time.

Two, Padme has just raised a vote of No Confidence against Chancellor Valorum.

He sighs, bowing his head into his hands.

He does not trust politicians, but Valorum, while overcautious and overeager to please, genuinely cares for the role he fills. He cares for his people, and for the Senate, and he cares that their actions be right.

But they are in a day and age when the Senate cares more for its alliances, and when the last genuine man Qui-Gon knows in the entire body is wracked by rumours of corruption and falsified evidence because he was forced to affect results in secret that he couldn’t affect in the political arena, then he begins to lose hope in that quarter.

He does not sleep well that night.

He has not yet petitioned the Council to test Anakin. He cannot wait much longer but he has only just told them of the boy’s existence and must now wait to give them a space to adjust.

Obi-Wan is barely awake, though very weak.

“Master,” he says, and does not even try to sit up.

“You seem better,” Qui-Gon observes mildly.

Obi-Wan grimaces and nods. “I sent a message to the Council,” he whispers slowly, “I must tell them – the one who attacked the ship…”

“Be still,” Qui-Gon advises, “We have the footage from the ship, and there are one or two more pieces of evidence I’ve been able to drag back.”

“He was Sith,” Obi-Wan says.

“I know,” Qui-Gon returns, “But we are not to speak of it until the Council has investigated the claim.”

“I felt him.”

“They will too.”

Obi-Wan’s fluttering lashes lift immediately. “You caught him?” His voice sounds stronger.

Qui-Gon feels his mouth twist. “Not quite. He attempted to board us when we were taking off. I managed to take his arm and his lightsabre but the rest of him fell back to the desert after that.”

Obi-Wan coughs a little. “Then we have something,” he says, and his eyelids begin to droop again.

“We have our lives,” Qui-Gon says whimsically, softly, “That is enough to be thankful for.”

Obi-Wan snorts weakly but drifts into sleep soon after.

Qui-Gon petitions the Council to meet with Anakin. “I only ask that you test him.”

He is not surprised when Anakin is tested and found wanting.

The Council exists for a reason, and he believes in them, but he does not trust them to understand what does not lie within the narrow boundaries of their rules. In some ways it is necessary to hold their knights and initiates together, to hold on to what is right and acceptable.

In times like these, he despairs.

Anakin is a child and they say he is too old. He is a boy who risks his life for others because it is right and they call him dangerous. They tear his dream and his self-worth from him and expect him to be grateful and humble.

Qui-Gon places his hands firmly on Anakin’s thin shoulders. “I will train him if it is the only way,” he says, “I take Anakin Skywalker to be my Padawan learner.”

He is growing too old to train younglings. He knows this. They know this. They also remind him that he already has a Padawan learner.

“Obi-Wan has been ready for his trials for long enough,” he says, “There is little more he will learn from me.”

“Decide we will, who is ready for the trial,” Yoda rebukes.

They do not want to listen.

Anakin says nothing in the Council chambers, possibly still stunned by the psychic probing and prodding he has endured. Infants are usually known to burst into tears when they are tested, though a rare handful press back.

Anakin, Qui-Gon believes, simply stood there passively, a slave trained not to react when new owners examined him.

“Sir,” Anakin says timidly.

Qui-Gon realises that he has been walking the way he has grown used to walking with Obi-Wan, who in turn has grown into his stature and his lithe, quick stride that keeps up without any effort. Anakin, on the other hand, is a child of nine and his legs are neither long enough or strong enough to carry him at this pace much further.

Qui-Gon slows down considerably. “Do you have questions about your test?” he asks neutrally.

Anakin looks at the ground. “No. I mean, yes, but I wanted to ask – is Obi-Wan going to be alright?”

“He will recover,” Qui-Gon tells him, “What questions do you have, Ani?”

“I was wondering, if I can’t be a Jedi, will you send me back to Tatooine?”

Qui-Gon comes to a complete halt. “You will be a Jedi, Ani, that I promise you. The Council can withhold or grant their approval as they like but they do not make a final judgement on whom I choose to train.”

“But they said you can’t have two Pada- pawa…”

“Padawans,” Qui-Gon offers, “No, I can’t. But Obi-Wan is old enough that I believe he will go to his Trials. If he passes, he will be made a Knight.”

“And if he fails?” Anakin asks.

Qui-Gon raises his eyebrow. “I doubt he will,” he says lightly, “But if he fails he can either stay and continue his training, or he can leave the Order and find his place elsewhere.”

“So he can leave whenever he wants.”

“We all can,” Qui-Gon admits, “But it is a difficult choice, Anakin. We have no lives outside of the Order. We have no families, no homes. And if we leave, it is rare that we can come back.”

“No families?” Anakin looks horrified, “But what about my Mom?”

“I’m afraid she will not be able to live here. And you will not be allowed to see her.”

“But… but I can’t leave her. She’s my Mom!”

Anakin is a boy of nine but he is growing red in the face and his eyes are filling with tears.

Qui-Gon sighs. “Come with me,” he says, and, “It’s alright to be scared and angry, Anakin, but try to relax your mind and your shoulders. Let your feelings flow through you. You will feel much better and think much clearer.”

He takes him to his quarters and sits him down. He makes him tea and distracts him briefly by showing him the Verpine fighters that Obi-Wan made when he was about Anakin’s age. The models are old-fashioned now but Qui-Gon’s grown to quite like the low, monotonous hum of them flying up near the ceiling in lazy circles.

“I don’t want to leave my Mom,” Anakin says, “You never told me I had to.”

“I know,” Qui-Gon says humbly, “It is easy to forget that you do not know as much about the Jedi as children of the Republic do.”

“Does everyone else knows that Jedi have to leave their families to come here?”

“Most do. Jedi initiates are brought here as babies. We rarely take anyone older than two. And if you examine your situation, it is easy to understand why.”

Anakin sniffs and wipes his eyes. “I don’t see why I can’t stay with her and still learn to be a Jedi.”

“It would be too difficult to live in two worlds, Anakin. You must devote yourself fully and completely to a study of the Force. You must grow into yourself while growing into your understanding of what it means to serve others. That is the path we teach at this Temple. There were other paths in the past but there is a reason they grew out of favour. It was too easy to lose your way on those, too easy to find yourself in a place you never intended to go.”

“But I’ve always had my Mom. Even when we were slaves, they sold us together. She begged them to sell us as one unit and made them mark her down so no one would try to split us up because they couldn’t afford two.”

“You both have your freedom now,” Qui-Gon says.

“But I won’t have my Mom.”

“No. And Anakin, I know this is a hard choice. I believe our meeting was the will of the Force. I believe that you were meant to come here. But that is where the Force leads me. You must choose for yourself where it leads you.”

They drink tea and say very little. In truth, Qui-Gon is exhausted, and his conversation with Anakin has taken the last of his peace of mind. His hope in the bright future of a Chosen One who will bring peace and balance to the Force has turned to ash. His doubts assail him. And he is reminded not only of his own mortality but of his impending loneliness.

He has lost Tahl, and he will soon lose Obi-Wan. He lost Feemor and Dooku a long time ago. His actions on Tatooine will not leave his reputation unsullied and soon he will find his missions grow slower and more inactive. Drier and more reflective.

He wonders if his belief in Anakin stems only from his desire to be useful again, to make one last dramatic bid for the betterment of the Galaxy.

But he knows these doubts are false. Just as he knows he is resigned to his future.

He is alive, and that is more than enough to be thankful for.

“I think it’s time I took you back to your mother,” he says.

Anakin nods, confused and upset, and Shmi is not happy when she notes the sadness etched into her son’s young face.

“They said I had to leave you,” Anakin whispers.

Shmi is in a gown of cream and pink, her hair dressed and her lips glossed but when she looks up, her eyes are still as vulnerable and wary as they were on Tatooine.

Qui-Gon elaborates. “If he joins the Order, that is the sacrifice you both must make. He will be asked to give you up completely, and you will be asked to sign over your rights to him to the Temple.”

“Anakin,” she says, and stands up, “Please go to the other room for a minute. I need to talk to Mister Qui-Gon.”

Anakin casts a suddenly wary look between the two of them but he goes obediently.

Qui-Gon does not want to hurt Shmi, nor does he want the fight he believes he is in for. He knows why parents would not appreciate these terms as he knows why the Order finds it necessary to demand them.

“A child cannot be split between two worlds,” he says.

“I understand that,” she replies, “But is there no mercy in you? I have never had a right to my child. I have begged and bartered and sold myself to keep him with me and I succeeded. Her Royal Highness says she will get us both papers to make us legal citizens. I will be a free woman and my son will be a free man and now you tell me that he will never be free. He will serve you and your Temple until something that can kill a Jedi kills my son. Why would you free me to bring me to that?”

He has no answer for her.

“You could have left me,” she continues, “I am not important to your plans. I am not the Chosen One.”

“I did not go to rescue slaves but you did not have to give us shelter. You did not have to allow Anakin to race,” Qui-Gon finally says, “I couldn’t leave you if there was a way I could save you.”

“Save me for what? I work hard on Tatooine or I work hard on Coruscant. I lose my son either way.”

“But you are free to make your own life here.”

“He is my life,” she shouts, her serenity finally shattering, “He is the only part of my life that has not hurt me, and you will take him away because his blood makes him useful to you.”

Padme enters the room, hard stare roving from one to the other before her gaze settles back on Qui-Gon. “I require my handmaiden, Master Jedi,” she says formally, “If you have private business with her, I would appreciate it if you could come back at a more convenient time.”

Qui-Gon bows and takes his leave.

“I am sorry if you believe I do this from malice,” he says.

Shmi shakes her head. “It would be easier if you did,” she replies thickly, “But you do it from ignorance.”

He goes because there is nothing else that he can say.

He is ignorant of what it feels like to be a slave; bought and sold and then suddenly freed to be counted as a citizen instead of a possession.

He is ignorant of the love a parent holds for her child. He has never had a child. Has never been part of conception and gestation, never celebrated a birth and carried a baby in his hands on its very first day of life. He has never nurtured and protected it when it was at its weakest.

He has never loved a child with the easy affection and total devotion required from a father.

He has been a Master, instead, and taken children into combat zones. He has pushed their boundaries and tested their minds and hardened their resolves. He has honed their perceptions of the outside world and driven them to ever higher standards in his quest for success.

And one of them he failed so badly that a boy with the same brightness he sees now in Anakin grew twisted and cruel and vain.

He has no right to tell a woman like Shmi what she should and should not do for her son.

And yet he must.

Because he truly does believe that Anakin is the Chosen One, and he truly does believe that Anakin must be trained.

He falls into a deep sleep that night but wakes before sunrise. His exhaustion still lingers but he pulls himself from the comfort of his bed and goes to the medical bay.

Obi-Wan is still asleep, still grey-faced and mottled with bruises. He is swathed in bandages and bacta gel and the IV patches on his right arm are still firmly in place.

“He had a restless night,” the medic tells him, “We sedated him.”

Qui-Gon is frankly shocked. It is an extreme measure to take unless the behaviour that prompted it was extreme in itself.

“Was he violent?” he asks.

The medic eyes him for a minute. “Yes,” she says at last, “We believe he is assimilating his memories of the fight that caused his injuries. He has not had the time to reflect and meditate on them. The tension has begun to play on his fears and his emotions.”

“I will sit with him if I may.”

She allows him to do as he likes so long as he doesn’t disturb her patient or the equipment surrounding him.

Qui-Gon does neither. He sits there and watches the sweep of Obi-Wan’s sandy lashes, the slope of his cheek and the line of his neck, the curve of his shoulder and the thin, meticulously cared for braid that has been tucked neatly behind his ear.

His Padawan is grown and a man, and has no further need of a Master. He is certain of that. He hopes Obi-Wan will find a use for a friend but the life of a new Knight is not likely to leave much room for anything except his missions and his discovery of his own independence.

Still, he sits and watches, and wonders what Obi-Wan’s parents were like. Wonders what they looked like and sounded like. He wonders whether there are siblings somewhere in the Galaxy.

It makes him smile to think of other versions of his Padawan running headfirst into trouble, courageous and unshakeable the way that Obi-Wan always has been.

He knows with every certainty that Obi-Wan has never regretted returning to the Order after Melida/ Daan. He is not as certain that Obi-Wan has never regretted returning to the Order after Mandalore.

He tries to imagine this man as a pacifist and a political dignitary and can’t, any more than he can imagine him as a husband and a father.

“You were right,” Obi-Wan says suddenly.

Qui-Gon lifts his gaze from contemplation of the still, loosely held fingers almost as pale as the sheets. Obi-Wan’s eyes are amused but gentle, his face slightly slack from the lingering traces of sleep and weakness.

He looks soft and rumpled and thoroughly unintimidating. Not at all like someone who has been so violent he was sedated overnight.

Qui-Gon nods. “I often am,” he says, “What am I right about this time?”

“I did live,” Obi-Wan says.

Jedi hold all life sacred but it is never perfect.

“Nothing short of complete disintegration will accomplish otherwise,” Qui-Gon tells him.

“I hope no one tries that,” Obi-Wan says, “It would be a painful recovery if it fails.”

Once again he does not even try to sit up, but now that he is awake, he looks healthier than he appeared in his sleep. He seems bigger, somehow, and the long ropes of muscle shift with telling precision beneath the deceptively soft stretch of his skin.

Qui-Gon has turned this man into a weapon, and he suddenly wonders why.

“Master?” Obi-Wan prompts, and the softness has vanished from his face, leaving animated concern and a furrowed brow.

“There have been developments,” Qui-Gon says.

“Tell me,” Obi-Wan replies.

And Qui-Gon does.

He spares nothing – his own decisions, his reckless insistence on betting on the pod race, his deal with Jabba, his concerns for the Galaxy, his indelicate handling of Shmi and Anakin’s fears. Some of this Obi-Wan knows but not all, and they have not spoken at length yet. He trusts Obi-Wan to see him at the worst that he can be, and to understand that he wants only the best for those around him.

Obi-Wan has always forgiven him most of his failings, even when others haven’t. Qui-Gon thinks with some humour that he will miss that easy comfort as much as the companionship.

But Obi-Wan is also unflinchingly honest with him.

“You must have known Anakin would never choose to break contact with his mother,” he says gently.

“Of course. But it is a choice he must make.”

“I don’t see why,” Obi-Wan says thoughtfully, “No one else makes it.”

Qui-Gon frowns.

“Consider this, Master, we were all taken much younger than Anakin. We weren’t asked what we wanted. The choice was never ours to make.”

“Do you think I’m being too hard on Anakin?”

“I think you may expect more than any child can give, Master. I don’t know if I would have the strength to leave someone I loved for an uncertain future.”

“You have,” Qui-Gon points out.

Obi-Wan does not look at him. “I chose to leave an uncertain future with the person I loved for the safety of a world I understood. And I was much older.” He raises a hand to rub at his brow. “I know this life, Master. I know how to be a Jedi. I wouldn’t have known how to be… whatever I was supposed to become.”

“You chose the easy path,” Qui-Gon observes.

“I chose the safe path,” Obi-Wan corrects, “Being a Jedi is not easy. But I understand it, and I know what is expected of me.”

“You believe that Anakin will make the same choice.”

“His world has changed. Shmi Skywalker is the only familiar thing left in it. He will not give her up easily.”

It’s only when he rises to leave that Obi-Wan says, “Shmi Skywalker may, of course, choose differently.”

She does not.

She does not get the chance.

“Final, our decision is,” Yoda says, “Training, we will not allow.”

He is finally brought to heel, in a way the Council has never managed to do before, and they hold his deal with Jabba over him until he relents. He relinquishes his demand to train Anakin Skywalker and returns slowly to the residency of diplomats for Naboo.

Shmi agrees to see him.

“The Council has refused to train Anakin,” he says, “I am forced to bow to their wishes for now.”

“You promised him he would be a Jedi Knight,” she says.

“You led me to believe you could not give him up,” he returns.

She looks away. “I should not have said those things.”

“If they were true, then you were not wrong to say them. This is a hard life you live and Anakin gives you joy. Even in my ignorance I understand that.”

She flushes. “That boy who was hurt. Your student. Do you not feel the same way for him?”

“He is… not even a student,” Qui-Gon says, “I feel responsible for him, concern. I feel fear when he is in danger and anger when I can’t help. But I am only a guide and he chooses his own path. I will miss him but it is our way.”

“It is the way you would have chosen for Anakin.”

“Yes,” he says honestly, “I would have chosen that life for Anakin. He has talent beyond anything we have ever recorded at the Temple. He has a good heart and kindness. He is resilient and strong. Those are the qualities of a Jedi Knight.”

“But they can be the qualities of a good person too.”

“True,” Qui-Gon says, “For your son must have learned them from you.”

She smiles, just slightly, and ducks her head. “The Queen tells me that I can stay under her protection,” she tells him, “She says Anakin can go to school and learn a trade.”

Qui-Gon nods serenely. “The young Queen will need someone she can trust and confide in,” he agrees.

Shmi lowers her voice. “She wants to return to her own planet. She says she can’t leave her people to die. It’s all I can do to remind her that she has no guards and no pilots left. She has no way of organising a resistance.”

“Has she spoken in the Senate since the elections?” he asks.

She shakes her head.

He considers the matter. “Does she see Senator Palpatine often?”

“The new chancellor? No, I don’t think so. He came to see her every day at the start. He was very kind to Ani when he came. But he hasn’t been here in some time. He says he is trying to lobby for support.”

Qui-Gon nods. “Try to keep Padme from leaving Coruscant. I’ll make some enquiries.”

“I will tell Anakin the bad news,” Shmi sighs as she stands up. She smooths down her skirt. “He will want to see you before you leave us.”

“I remain on Coruscant while Obi-Wan heals,” he gives her, “If Ani needs to talk, call the Temple and ask for me. I will try to be available.”

They part understanding each other, if not quite on friendly terms. He doubts they will ever be friends when she connects him with harm to her son, but he trusts her with Anakin’s future and he is glad that she has found a place to begin her new life.

He hesitates before returning to the Temple, looking across the skyline to the imposing edifice that dwarfs everything around it.

He does not question his own life in it any more than he questions his commitment to the Order. He is a Jedi, with or without his lightsabre or his robes, without his authority or the recognition of the Council.

He seeks out Finis Valorum on a whim.

There is much to be done before Chancellor Palpatine can be properly sworn in but to all intents and purposes, the change has been formalised and effected.

Valorum greets him from behind a desk covered in a jumble of datachips, datapads, and hologram platforms, and Qui-Gon takes a moment to note a slightly bewildered air of resignation hanging over the man.

He has only met Valorum once, and the impression remains underwhelming.

“Master Jinn,” Valorum says, “What can I do for you?”

Even his smile is thin and weak.

They speak of Naboo and the continuing, deadly blockade.

“Palpatine will do what he can,” Valorum says, “But I can’t see what political foundation he will build a case on. The Trade Federation has broken no Republic Laws and Naboo has set their own System Legislation on the contravention of airspace regulations. The Senate is not allowed to enforce that.”

Qui-Gon speaks in terms of law and negotiation, and finds Valorum eyeing him with an odd gleam of amusement.

“Senator?” he asks.

“I always expect a Jedi to lecture me on morality,” Valorum says tiredly, “I am always surprised when they don’t.”

“Morally I find the Trade Federation’s actions reprehensible, irresponsible and driven by greed and malice. Morally I would wish them to pay compensation for the damage they have caused and to express public remorse for the deaths they have caused. I doubt my moral judgements will sway them.”

“No,” Valorum agrees drily, “I doubt it too.”

They discuss Naboo and the blockade and the Queen’s growing desperation.

“The Senate is locked in a bureaucratic nightmare,” Valorum explains, “Nothing can be done without a hard chain of evidence. I have tried to push for change but I could not get enough momentum. Perhaps Palpatine will do what I could not. The man has a way of…”

He pauses as though to find the right words.

“Motivating?” Qui-Gon suggests.

“More. He speaks, and you believe he is a kindred spirit. The whole thing seems obvious. Ridiculously simple, in fact. And yet what you hear is different to what someone else hears, and someone else again. He has a remarkable talent for diplomacy.”

Naboo has need of it. Their situation is growing dire.

Shmi sends a message to the Temple that very night.

She says only, “The Queen leaves in the morning,” and he returns to the residency immediately.

The Senate Guards have their orders but the Jedi are powerful agents on Coruscant. They are not lightly stopped or turned away from places they wish to go, and when they are, there is no guarantee that the guard who has done so will not find himself facing a most unpleasant private rebuke.

“I was not expecting visitors at this hour,” Padme says warily.

Her hair is down, her face free of paint and powder, and the dress she wears is plain and loose. She looks like the young handmaiden who accompanied him into a space port on Tatooine.

“I could not wait until morning,” he says, “It would be too late.”

She glances sideways at Shmi, who shows her guilt in her face by looking entirely unrepentant.

She does him the courtesy of not dragging out the conversation – “My mind is made up,” she tells him, “My place is with my people.”

“Your role is to save them, not die with them. If you go back, they will kill you.”

“I’m not going to walk straight back into the palace,” she argues, tilting her head, “Senator Palpatine has been in contact with the resistance. He will make sure they conduct me to safety, where we can regroup and plan.”

Qui-Gon looks at Shmi who nods imperceptibly.

“That is a risky decision, Your Highness,” he says.

“It’s still the one I make.” Padme leans back in her chair. “It’s the same way you helped the Duchess Satine of Mandalore to regain her throne.”

“I remember. But we were already in Sundari when war broke out and she was not facing an external enemy but an internal one. You will not get past the blockade and even if you do, they will know you are coming.”

“Senator Palpatine has thought of that. He has organised a commission to substantiate the claims. I will go with them disguised as an aide. Once I am on the planet, the resistance will make contact and extract me.”

“The Senator seems to have planned this thoroughly,” Qui-Gon comments.

“I am prepared to risk my life to save my people,” she says.

He believes her.

“Then I would like permission to accompany you,” he says.

She actually laughs, looking startled and shocked. “I’m going as an aide. Why would an aide need a Jedi protector?”

He smiles. “I am able to find my way into places I am not allowed to go.”

He doesn’t tell her that he will be on the same ship she will be on, hidden in the uncomfortable corners that respectable people don’t think about and that Jedi are used to.

He calls on Yoda and Valorum, in that order, and advises them of what he is about to do.

“Interfering, you are,” Yoda says repressively, “Approve, the Council cannot.”

“But you can, my old friend,” Qui-Gon says affectionately.

“Hm,” Yoda sniffs, “May the Force be with you.”

Valorum is hastily dressed when he comes out but Qui-Gon politely ignores the smeared trace of pink lipstick on the man’s neck. He has no time to exchange pleasantries or explain his rude interruption so late at night. What he is about to do is of far more importance.

By the time the sun has risen over Coruscant and set again, he is stowed on a ship and speeding towards yet another hostile situation.

This is the last chance he has for any respite for quite some time.


	3. Chapter 3

The plans that have been so carefully laid go badly awry, as he feared they would.

The Trade Federation risked everything once before when they tried to kill the ambassadors of the Senate. They cannot afford to repeat that mistake under far more advanced scrutiny, and certainly not with such a large group of important diplomats.

The Trade Federation can, however, insist on their own people accompanying the commission to the planet surface, to offer explanations for anything that seems odd or unreasonable. The commission allows the accompaniment.

This makes it harder for Qui-Gon, who must hide from the security droids and increased military presence on the Senate ship. It makes it easier for the Trade Federation to spring their trap when the ship lands.

It is the Naboo who surround the diplomats with weapons and threats, who order them to disarm and kneel upon the dusty ground. It is the Naboo who take them all captive.

Qui-Gon hides as best he can but they send in life signs scanners to seek out any lingering personnel as the ship’s crew are rounded up and marched out.

He follows in the crowd, attempting to make himself smaller and less noticeable in the press of bodies.

He succeeds for a given measure of success. He is not recognised. His lightsabre is in an internal pocket so it stays close to hand. He is patient until he senses that the time and opportunity is right, and then he makes his escape.

The outward appearance of hostility enacted by some of the people of Naboo is not an act. They are in the pay of the Trade Federation, and they have been promised power and wealth if they choose to accept their conquerors.

“The Queen turned her back on us,” a soldier spits, “She sits in luxury in Coruscant while her people starve.”

“She has been fighting in the Senate on Coruscant to help her people.”

“So it may be, but the fight is here, and she is not.”

Qui-Gon does not waste his words on those who have too much anger to listen. He knocks the soldier out and tries to find Padme.

He locates her in an ornate suite of rooms, where she has a bruised wrist but is otherwise unhurt.

“One of my own people did this,” she says, and her voice is ice, “They have turned their back on their kin and their Queen.”

“Your Highness,” he says, “They are in the pay of the Trade Federation. They are doing what they need to survive.”

“This is not survival,” she tells him, holding out her wrist, “This is an act of treason.”

“Then perhaps we should re-establish your right to prosecute your claim,” he suggests.

She handles a blaster better than some guards, though he suspects that her anger is driving her in a way she will regret when her mind is clearer.

“You can’t fight this war alone,” he warns, “And I will not fight a war at all. I am only here to protect you.”

They escape the palace, and she begins to lead them to the rendezvous point that Palpatine has arranged but Theed is crawling with battle droids and local-born infantry. They run for their lives and Qui-Gon has to carry Padme over parapets and up roofs to get her away from those who would do her harm.

He is reaching the end of his patience when a door slits open and a hand waves urgently.

“Your Majesty,” someone hisses, “In here. Hurry! They aren’t far behind.”

They take their chances and slip in through the doorway which is promptly closed behind them.

This huddle of women and children and invalids is not the resistance, but they are loyal subjects to the Queen, and as one body they kneel and offer their allegiance.

Qui-Gon watches Padme’s reaction.

She lifts her chin and he can see the authority she possesses far beyond her elaborate costumes and cosmetics. The fire of her fierce belief in her people and the stubborn set of her mouth.

He has seen this once before, and the woman he saw it in rules over a hundred planets in the system of Mandalore.

Perhaps, he thinks, Padme was right to choose Satine Kryze as her model.

They stay silent as the steady clank of droids approaches, scanning the area for life signs and trails. Finding nothing that matches the narrow limits of their search, the droids move on, and miss the most obvious ploy.

“We are safe for now,” a woman says, “But the local militia will be more thorough. We must get you somewhere safe, Your Highness.”

They dispatch three children to scout in the dark of night, and then send their Queen and her Jedi protector with only one man to guide them.

His right arm is withered, but he grins at them wide enough to show his white teeth in the shadows.

“I shoot better with my left,” he whispers, “Follow me.”

He takes them by slow, tortuous routes, and at one point they take cover on a rooftop while an explosion roars through the air.

“The statue of Artemis,” their guide murmurs.

Padme looks to Qui-Gon, her eyes wide. The statue was their rendezvous point.

It is only when they have reached the underground tunnel that leads them out of the city – when they have been given to a rebel cell and made welcome and aware and given space to rest – that Qui-Gon turns to Padme and asks, “Who else knew the Chancellor’s plans?”

“No one,” she says with conviction, “I told no one except you and Shmi. The Chancellor spoke with me alone and said even his aides did not know the whole plan.”

There are only two people that Qui-Gon has told, and Yoda has no reason to scheme for the downfall of the Naboo.

Valorum, he thinks, is the only option. Until a thought occurs to him.

“He would not know to sabotage the statue,” he says.

“That may be a coincidence,” Padme contemplates, “Or maybe they caught one of our contacts and found out. Maybe the statue was just convenient.”

“There is another possibility,” Qui-Gon says, “The traitor is operating in Theed. Who did Palpatine make contact with?”

“I don’t know,” Padme confesses.

Qui-Gon nods. “We rest for now. We will talk further with fresh minds.”

She comes to find him while he is meditating, and he is deep enough into the quiet, restful space in the depths of his mind that he hears her approach but does not respond to it. He is aware that she sits behind him, close by, with her back to the wall. And then he lets the consciousness of her drift away.

When he finally surfaces, she is asleep, and she looks like the child she is.

He covers her with his robe and stays beside her, watchful of her rest.

The day breaks to activity.

The news of her return spreads like wildfire through Naboo. The protests have been ongoing for weeks but now they grow more violent.

The militia also grow more violent. People are beaten in the streets; their homes are invaded.

Sio Bibble issues a proclamation calling for appeasement and cooperation but it only inflames the situation.

“That’s not even a good fake holovid,” a rebel sneers, “The Governor has never bowed to the wishes of the Trade Federation. They hold him a prisoner while they issue lies in his name.”

Padme’s lips tighten and then she says, “Can we broadcast our own message?”

The rebels grin.

The Queen of the Naboo is only a girl, and she can no longer build her authority on state ritual and costumes, but she flashes across her world on screens as large as buildings, her eyes hard and fierce as she promises that she will not rest until Naboo is free once more.

“I do not ask anyone to fight who does not want to fight,” she says, “But if you can fight, know that I fight with you. And when we win, it will be as one people with one voice and one heart.”

The uprisings are devastating for three days, but inch by bloody inch, the resistance gains ground. Across a dozen towns or more, victories are being reported against the battle droids and the paid militia.

Theed is the last hold-out.

Qui-Gon is concerned.

“They have the diplomats,” he murmurs, “It makes no sense that they have not used their lives to bargain with.”

“They haven’t tried to bargain at all,” Padme says, “I don’t trust that either.”

He nods abstractly. 

It’s soon clear why. They have been moving from safe house to safe, fluctuating from the outskirts of the city to the smaller towns and abandoned chalets in the countryside surrounding its great walls, but they are betrayed again, and this time, there is no escape.

The resistance cell is outnumbered and outgunned, and even as Qui-Gon makes a desperate bid to get Padme to safety, her people are cut down around her.

They fight, desperate and loyal to the end, but there is no evading the outcome.

In the end, there are only five of them left and Padme shouts, “Stop.”

She is in tears, finally broken, and he sees from her face that she is somewhere on a ship on Tatooine, hiding in a panel and listening helplessly to the screams of pain and blaster fire. He stands between her and the droids, but he lowers his lightsabre.

The last of the resistance does the same.

“Stop,” she whispers, “I surrender.”

“You have a chance,” Qui-Gon murmurs, “When I give the order, we can get you to the other room. From there you can make it through the window and out into the streets. Your people will help you.”

“No,” she says, “We’ve lost this battle. I order you to stand down.”

He is neither her subject nor her vassal. He does not follow in her train but he deactivates his lightsabre.

They confiscate it, as they do all the weapons.

In the end, Padme’s attempts to save five people are for nothing. She is Queen and so her life is necessary to the Neimoidians for now. Qui-Gon Jinn is a Jedi Master and though he is operating outside of the Council’s sanctions, the Order is not to be trifled with by executing knights in such a public arena.

The four other resistance fighters, however, are nameless and unnecessary.

They are summarily executed in secret and their bodies given back to their families as a warning couched in mercy.

Bibble comes to visit the Jedi prisoner and he is haggard. “Why did you bring her back here?” he asks, his voice almost breaking.

Qui-Gon shakes his head. “I could not stop her,” he admits honestly.

Bibble sighs. “In any other time, she would have been a great Queen.”

“She almost was.”

“You know they will make her sign the treaty.”

“She will never sign it.”

“They only need to say that she has. Once they have control, she will live out her days as a figurehead for as long as they can keep her quiet.”

Qui-Gon nods tiredly. He runs a hand over his beard, mouth parched from lack of water and stomach painful from lack of food. The Neimoidians mean to weaken him as far as they can without irreparable damage.

Bibble knows his discomfort. His eyes are sympathetic but he is helpless to assist.

“Has the Senator been in contact?” he asks.

Bibble shakes his head. “Not that I’ve been told. But then,” he adds bitterly, “I’m told very little these days.”

The Governor leaves him to his hunger and thirst, and the time in which to accept what he should have foreseen and what he failed to notice.

How long he spends in the dungeon is anyone’s guess. There are no windows so he cannot tell day from night. Sleep loses him time. Hunger is eternal. His dehydration begins to play tricks with his perception.

He keeps strict control over himself but it begins to sap at his strength.

He believes he has finally snapped when he feels a hand touch his arm and a voice murmur, “Master,” urgently in his ear.

“Obi-Wan?” he murmurs, and the shock is enough to bring him fully awake in an instant.

That glimmer of a smile is like no one else’s, and those eyes are clear and knowing.

“Drink this,” Obi-Wan whispers, “It will help but we can’t wait long, I’m afraid.”

Qui-Gon grasps the bottle handed to him and has to fight not to pour it down his neck in his attempts to get the liquid down his throat. Even worse is forcing himself to take small, careful sips.

The taste is sweet and tart and Obi-Wan watches the door while he replenishes his fluids and salts. Then he stands.

“I’m afraid I can’t give you a lightsabre, Master,” Obi-Wan says, “How would a blaster suit you in a pinch?”

“It’s an uncivilised weapon but I suppose I’ll manage,” Qui-Gon says.

His joints are stiff and he hurts down to his bones. He doubts he would be much use with a lightsabre even should he have one. But a blaster requires little more than aim and eyesight, and that he still has.

“I’ll cover you,” he orders, when they inevitably end up in a fight.

He lays down cover fire while his Padawan ducks and weaves around the droids, hacking and slicing with formidable precision. To keep up, he takes down two droids in quick succession with pinpoint accuracy.

“Good shot,” Obi-Wan calls back.

They have always found their rhythm beside each other in a fight, even when they lacked any common ground outside of one. This time is no different, though the unexpected change to their skillsets is bemusing.

“The Queen is safe,” Obi-Wan tells him when they’re clear and racing for the docks, “She’s on the ship. I told them to meet us at the East docking station. Our allies are keeping the way clear.”

Qui-Gon reserves the last of his strength for running.

They make it to the East docking station with only one more fight, and he calls on the Force to push himself the last few meters.

The ship is already hovering a few inches over ground and Obi-Wan steadies him as he jumps up the landing ramp.

They take off immediately.

It takes them both a few moments to draw enough oxygen into their lungs and then, “Mister Qui-Gon! Are you okay? Is he okay, Obi-Wan?”

“He’ll be fine, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says easily.

And Qui-Gon sits up. “Ani? What are you doing here?” he demands, and then turns a warning stare on his Padawan.

Who meets him eye to eye without flinching.

“You and the Queen were in danger,” Anakin protests, “And nobody was coming to help you. And then you got captured and they were going to put Padme on trial.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says patiently, “If you’re out here, who is flying this ship?”

“Oh, it’s on autopilot,” Anakin says.

“Not while we’re in a combat zone,” Obi-Wan says firmly, “Go back and stay alert. Keep watch on our monitors.”

“Alright,” Anakin sighs, “But I did tell R2D2 and C-3PO to keep watch, you know.”

“A droid does not have all the advantages of a sentient being,” Qui-Gon says, “It would be safer if you were there too.”

He does not ask why either of the two droids are part of this ridiculous rescue party.

Anakin perks up and strides off.

“You indulge him,” Obi-Wan warns.

“He is not my Padawan,” Qui-Gon says, and begins to stand.

Obi-Wan helps him up.

This kindness does not disqualify him from a lecture on the dangers of bringing a youngling on a rescue mission.

“I caught him trying to steal a ship to come by himself,” Obi-Wan says quietly, “I sensed that he would try again the minute I turned my back. What was I going to do? I have no authority over him, and I had no time to arrange a babysitter.”

Qui-Gon winces. “He is strong willed.”

“He is single-minded and possibly too lacking in fear for his own good,” Obi-Wan retorts, and then deflates, “But I can hardly chastise him when I was sneaking out to do the same.”

Qui-Gon patently does not laugh.

“You’d better tell me everything,” he says.

Which is how he learns that Obi-Wan is also a runaway, and has left the Temple without telling anyone of his intentions.

“I told one person,” Obi-Wan says, and hands him another bottle of water, “Valorum. It was he who contacted me to ask if we had received word of you.”

“Valorum?” Qui-Gon looks surprised.

“Well, he contacted the Temple and on being told that the Council had no further word after your arrest on Naboo, he asked to speak with the person you would be likely to contact first. The communications officers assumed he meant me.”

“They were not wrong,” Qui-Gon says lightly.

Obi-Wan quirks a grin. “This rescue might have gone very differently had they assumed it was Master Windu,” he agrees.

“Master Windu would have brought a spare lightsabre,” Qui-Gon points out.

“Master Windu would have preferred diplomatic channels, Master, as well you know. I decided storming the battlements was a faster solution. Senator Valorum agreed with me, as it happens, and has commissioned me as an agent of the Republic Senate to collect proof on the occupation of Naboo. We have some lovely aerial footage of battle droid assemblies and tank formations in the city square. I also have a draft of the treaty with corrections made by a Trade Federation clerk and a note from Nute Gunray himself demanding more stringent limits on the Queen’s legislative powers.

It is a little time later that Qui-Gon recalls one more point of order. “You mentioned allies during our escape from the palace.”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan says, and pushes his braid behind his ear, “I was hoping that Senator Valorum might explain that himself.”

It turns out that Senator Valorum had ruminated on the issue of allies for quite some time in his ponderous, underwhelming way, before hitting on a resolution.

“Jabba the Hutt sent gamorrean guards and hired mercenaries to help free the Queen of Naboo and a Jedi Knight,” Qui-Gon summarises.

“For the same reasons that he lent you money, yes. Which, by the way, Valorum has repaid.”

“Does Valorum understand how dangerous it is to foster this connection with a creature like Jabba? The Hutts are not to be trusted.”

 “And yet you trusted them.”

“Not on this scale, Obi-Wan. This is madness.”

“You have drawn a Hutt further down the path of joining the Republic than anyone else has ever managed, Master. That could be considered a victory.”

“It could be unleashing a new terror upon the Galaxy.”

“I sense you are being wilfully pessimistic.”

“Perhaps,” Qui-Gon admits, “But it has been a very long mission and the blockade is still not lifted.”

Neither is Obi-Wan completely healed.

Beneath his tunics and tabard and belt, he is still swathed in bandages. But he waves aside any concern and says he will rest now that he can.

Padme and Anakin are both on the flight deck, Padme perched in the co-pilot’s seat while Anakin points to various dials and readings and explains what they do.

It’s a running monologue and Qui-Gon is willing to bet that Padme isn’t listening to one word in twenty, but she is smiling at the boy, the worry briefly gone from her young face as nothing more than her kindness is expected from her.

She looks around when Anakin does, but where Anakin draws him further in on the subject of shield absorbers, she only nods a little shyly.

He bows to her in respect and then bends to peer over Anakin’s shoulder.

“I see,” he says, and doesn’t see at all.

But it makes her laugh and that, he feels, is good enough.

They land a distance away from the capital, and he wonders why until Obi-Wan leads them off the ship, moving stiffly with his right arm held close to his flank.

“We have one more ally to meet,” Obi-Wan says, just before Jar Jar Binks falls out of a bush.

Qui-Gon feels it is somewhat inevitable that the disaster of Naboo’s political situation should begin and end for him with Jar Jar Binks.

The Gungans are prepared for war and Obi-Wan activates some sort of upper atmosphere signal relay that begins a last battle on multiple fronts. This one to ships from other worlds in the sector that have agreed to bear witness. And intervene if required.

“Valorum has been busy,” Obi-Wan says, “He said there was no reason to negotiate in secret anymore.”

Padme laughs.

“The Chancellor was always our greatest ally,” she says, “But it seems he is more effective when he has no power.”

“A title is not the same as power, Your Highness, as you demonstrate quite effectively,” Obi-Wan returns.

She is thinner than Qui-Gon remembers, gaunt and pale with dark circles beneath her eyes, but she has the fire that he saw inspire a whole world to an uprising and he is certain that if she leads, her people will follow her into death.

He would prefer that not be the outcome.

“Take a moment,” he says, “Consider your options.”

“My only option is to fight.”

“Your only option is to end this war,” Qui-Gon urges, “Strategise to that end.”

They do.

The tension in Theed is like dry brush, and the minute the signal goes out that the Queen is once again in need, the streets are clogged with people who do nothing more than stand. The droids trapped outside the palace try to push through but they are held back by force, and when they open fire on unarmed citizens, the bodies turn into barricades and the crowd turns into a mob.

Out on the plains, the Gungans take on the might of the Federation’s armies, and up in space, the silent, watchful eyes of the motley fleet of the sister-planets of the Chommell Sector take note of the death and devastation.

The Queen storms the palace she has only just escaped from, blaster in hand and marching at the heart of the last remnants of her loyal guard, scraped out from the decimated resistance cells and hiding places.

Before the fight begins, however, Qui-Gon draws his Padawan aside.

“Your injuries are still serious,” he says, “Stay back. Provide us with cover but don’t push your strength too far.”

Obi-Wan looks up at him. “Have you ever followed your own advice, Qui-Gon?” he asks pointedly.

Qui-Gon huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “No,” he says ruefully, “But it is still very good advice.”

“It is,” Obi-Wan says, and holds out his lightsabre. “Keep it safe,” he says, and then takes the blaster in his turn. He checks the controls, the balance, the weight of it in his hands. “Definitely uncivilised,” he says distastefully, “But it will do.”

Qui-Gon has held Obi-Wan’s lightsabre once before, standing in Jenna Zan Arbor’s lab being held to ransom and weakened by torture. However, he has never had to use it.

He finds it surprisingly familiar. The grip is different and the hilt presses on spots in his palm that guide the flow of his movements to slight changes in angle, but while it does not feel like an extension of himself, it feels like a friend he knows well.

One further task he undertakes before he leaves for battle is to entrust Anakin to stay with the stolen ship.

“But I can help,” Anakin protests.

“No, Ani,” Qui-Gon says, “I need you to stay here for one very simple reason. If we fail, you must deliver the information in the ship’s memories to Coruscant. Give it only to Valorum and the Jedi Council. I have recorded a message to play when you reach them.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan calls.

Qui-Gon nods reassuringly. “Go on,” he says.

Anakin nods seriously and goes to where Obi-Wan is leaning on the flight console, frowning over the controls.

“Now you know how to fly her,” Obi-Wan says, “But remember to watch for the acceleration as you near the upper atmosphere. Don’t burn your thrusters too hard before you break through into space; keep control or you’re going to crash into one of the ships up there.”

“Yes, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says obediently.

Obi-Wan looks down at him. “Thank you for bringing me this far, Anakin,” he says gravely, “I hope I can return the favour one day.”

Anakin blinks. “You’re welcome,” he squeaks.

Obi-Wan strides off the ship.

“A little dramatic, don’t you think?” Qui-Gon murmurs.

“That boy was coming here by himself,” Obi-Wan says, “To this. For a man and a girl he barely knows. I believe it’s time someone said thank you.”

Qui-Gon takes the rebuke silently.

And he remembers it as he whirls, deflecting blaster fire and cutting down droids to clear Padme’s path. His strength is still limited, his body not recovered, but the Force flows through him and in him, and he wonders how anyone can be so blind as to miss the natural goodness in such a child.

To his left, a droid falls, its electro-pike clattering to the floor as smoke curls up from the hole in its damaged core.

He can just catch the briefest glimpse of Obi-Wan’s face, white with pain but tight with concentration, firing with careful deadly precision from a sniper’s position on a high beam overhead.

As they grow closer to the central tower, his comm unit crackles.

“Take cover,” he shouts, and ducks behind a pillar. “Anakin, what is it?”

“I’ve been monitoring the frequencies, Mister Qui-Gon. The Gungans have been sending up a distress call but the allies can’t help because the Trade Federation ships have opened fire! The Gungans are dying, sir.”

He closes his eyes and clears his mind. “Thank you for the information, Anakin.”

“What should we do?”

“You will stay right where you are, Anakin. You’re safe on the ship.”

He relays his message to Padme who clenches her jaw with fury. “If we can get to Nute Gunray, we can stop this,” she vows, “Press forward!”

The Jedi will not fight Padme’s war but it is inevitable that they help to win it. They cannot protect her from her enemies and continue total neutrality, but at least they are there to protect Nute Gunray when Padme finally bursts into the room and her anger almost drives her to put a shot through his skull.

“Your Highness,” Qui-Gon orders, “Take him before the Senate and let justice be seen to be done.”

“Half the Senate is in the pay of the Trade Federation,” Padme says.

But her hands are shaking, and Obi-Wan calmly takes Gunray into Jedi custody. The fact that he can barely stay upright doesn’t seem to be noticed by anyone except his Master, who promptly hands the prisoner off to a guard and orders Obi-Wan to the controls desk.

That fact that it allows Obi-Wan to sit is not lost on his Padawan.

“Shut those droids down,” Qui-Gon orders, “The Gungans can’t hold out much longer.”

“We can’t do that from here,” Obi-Wan says tightly, reeling through the command console’s functions and finding no connection to the Trade Federation’s central intelligence system. “It will take too long to find a path in.”

“We can use the weapons from the armoury to put together a basic militia,” a guard suggests.

Unfortunately, the last of the battle droids in the palace converge on the central tower and they are forced to close and bolt the blast doors for cover.

This, then, is when Anakin comes into his own.

The allies above Naboo have been forced into battle, and since they are now at war they try to end it as efficiently as they can manage. They have opened fire on the Command ship of the Trade Federation fleet in the hope that destroying it will deactivate the droid army.

The plan is sound but the Trade Federation’s ships are newer and far more technologically advanced, and the rest of the fleet is diverting attention away as the underprepared allies scramble to protect themselves.

They send fighters out to run interference but the fighters can only do so much.

Until a ship that is certainly not a military vehicle flies up from the planet. They have no idea who the pilot is but his help is more than welcome.

The sudden silence is almost eerie, and for a moment, no one in the city square, the central tower or the plains knows what’s happening as the droids simply freeze and fall.

“I told you to stay in the ship,” Qui-Gon says severely, “It was obvious that the ship was to stay grounded.”

“I didn’t mean to get involved,” Anakin says apologetically, “But a fighter came crashing through the trees and then I saw an alliance fighter trying to shake an enemy ship just above me and I thought I could help, sir. So I… did.”

Padme has no such misgivings about Anakin’s pathological need to be of use in a crisis. The hug she gives him almost crushes his ribs, but he looks so delighted by the experience that Obi-Wan hasn’t the heart to laugh at him.

In his turn, Padme settles for holding his hand in both of hers. “Thank you,” she says, with far more composure, and then kisses him on the cheek.

Since Obi-Wan is still sore, he prefers this more sedate greeting. He hands her thankfully off to Qui-Gon, who gets neither a kiss nor a hug, but a smile, genuine and small and a little shy.

“I only wish my friends were here to see this,” she says wistfully.

“I believe your friends would be proud of what you’ve accomplished today,” he tells her.

The diplomats are freed by royal order and the Queen herself meets them in her throne room, regal in nothing but a battled-stained dress and muddy boots, her hair flying out in wisps and no make-up to deaden the flushed warmth of her skin and the fire in her eyes.

“She reminds me…” Obi-Wan starts, and then stops.

Qui-Gon says nothing.

There are some heartaches that do not mend. He knows that as well anyone. But the Force flows through him and if he concentrates, he believes he can still hear the echo of Tahl’s voice speaking his name.

They escort the prisoner Nute Gunray back to Coruscant on the stolen ship, which, thanks to Anakin’s heroics, has several blackened scorch marks from a near miss to the wing.

“That was a close one, Ani,” Qui-Gon says.

“Yes, sir,” Anakin says obediently, but his eyes are shining as though he’s just received a compliment, rather than a reminder of his own mortality.

Qui-Gon sighs and only hopes that Anakin will not tell Shmi when she arrives on the diplomatic convoy. Shmi Skywalker is not likely to feel the same way as her son.

Anakin gets another crushing hug when his mother breaks through the sedate line of civil servants and diplomatic aides to run towards him. She almost swings him off his feet, and even Anakin’s rough and tumble approach to affection protests at this desperate strength.

“Don’t ever do that again, Anakin,” she says, “I was so worried.”

She hugs him again, but with a little more restraint.

“Mom,” Anakin says, “I’m fine, really. Did you hear about my flying? An enemy almost took my ship down, Mom. There’s scorch marks on the wing and everything!”

Qui-Gon resolves to have a talk with Anakin about risking his life with so little consideration and such worrying enjoyment.

But that time is not now, and he boards the less than pristine ship with Obi-Wan as official escorts to the prisoner Nute Gunray. Not only are they engaged to ensure that the President of the Trade Federation does not escape, but they are engaged to ensure that his allies do not try to kill him to stop him talking.

“Are we so sure that there are allies, Master?” Obi-Wan asks.

“The Trade Federation are cowards. This is not their method of operation,” Qui-Gon muses, “I think there is at least one other ally somewhere. Whether the ally is the brains or only an enabler is another matter.”

They disembark on Coruscant and hand over the prisoner with no incident. The memory banks of the ship are promptly copied and the information logged both on the Jedi archives for safe keeping and in the Senate evidence databank.

Palpatine has already departed for his homeworld, celebrating the freedom of his people and the victory of the Republic Senate.

“The senate did less than nothing,” Obi-Wan says in an undertone, “Finis Valorum deserves the credit.”

“He will never get it,” Qui-Gon replies easily, “He is hated too much.”

“A pity.”

“Is it? He used his wealth to buy mercenaries and thugs,” Qui-Gon says, “He has given the Hutts an opportunity to expand their criminal empire into an already corrupted Senate. I would hardly applaud his actions.”

“But you can hardly argue with the results either,” Obi-Wan replies.

“Victory is as much about the method of acting as the result of your actions. Remember your training, Padawan.”

“I remember, Master,” Obi-Wan says, and there is new maturity in his voice as he smiles archly up at him, “I also remember that politics is not fair, nor is it always just. Sometimes we must accept the lesser of two evils.”

Within three months Obi-Wan is allowed to take his Trials, once the Council is assured that he is fully healed.

Qui-Gon finds himself in the star map room, contemplating the thousands of worlds that exist.

Somewhere out there, he thinks, a one-armed Sith Lord has hidden himself so well that his very existence is questioned by his enemies.

“Complaisant, we have grown,” Yoda says from the doorway.

He turns his head just enough to watch his old friend limp slowly into the room and sit down beside him.

“So many worlds, so much life,” Yoda muses.

“And yet you believe we see and hear everything.”

“True, true. Uncertain, the future is. Hard to see, is the Dark Side.”

They both watch the stars roll.

“Did this before, we did,” Yoda says.

“Have we?”

“Hm. Many years ago.”

Qui-Gon remembers. “Only twelve years,” he replies, “Barely a breath in the span of a galaxy. And the stars still have much to teach us all.”

Obi-Wan passes, as Qui-Gon has expected, and the final ritual is sombre and dour, fraught with meaning and portent.

It is not only Obi-Wan who finds meaning in this moment. Qui-Gon remembers his own knighting as he watches, as he knows they all do. Even Yoda, eight hundred years ago and more, spoke these same words and performed the same actions.

Eight hundred years and more since then, and Yoda has lived to see the knighting ceremony remain the same, always the same, yet always subtly different; to see the faces around him change while his own feet stayed fixed in place.

He does not envy Yoda his years.

He thinks of Feemor, who is somewhere out there in the vast galaxy, and Xanatos, who never fulfilled his potential. He thinks of Bant Eerin, whom he has not seen since she was taken in by Master Kit Fisto.

He wonders if Bant’s lightsabre technique still retains the mid-level balance that Tahl once taught her.

He remembers Bruck Chun, a crumpled body at the bottom of a waterfall, and Obi-Wan’s face at the Senate hearing, desperate and lost and so young. Too young to have endured that. And yet it was right that he did. It taught him the meaning of consequence, the feeling of unjust accusation and the danger of twisted words and twisted emotions.

He thinks of Anakin, who will never have a chance to feel this connection to others like him. Who sense the things he does and understands what he feels when he lets his consciousness fall away.

But there is some joy in that, for Anakin is still happy and healthy and the Force will lead him where it must. All Qui-Gon can do is wait, and listen.


End file.
